by Lang Leav
It was one of those nights that you are not altogether sure what really
did happen. There are no photographs, nor receipts, no scaled journal entries.
Just the memory sitting in my mind, like a half-blown dandelion,
waiting to be fractured, dismembered. Waiting to disintegrate
As I close my eyes, the pictures play like a blurry montage. I can
see us driving for hours, until the street signs grew less familiar –
the flickering lamplights giving away to stars. Then sitting across
from you in that quiet, little Italian place. Your hands pushing the
plates aside, reaching across for mine.
The conversations we had about everything and nothing. And
kissing you. How I remember that.
It was one of those nights that my mind still can’t be sure of. That
wonders if I was ever there at all. Yet in my heart, it is as though
I’ve never left.